


But Don't Worry, It Was Only An Eclipse

by roguewrld



Series: Polaris Goes Dark [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguewrld/pseuds/roguewrld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 3: Clint's not under orders, but it was still all Fury's idea.</p><p>Part of the unfinished back story to 'Polaris Goes Dark'</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Don't Worry, It Was Only An Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> The back story to Clint and Phil's relationship in Polaris Goes Dark. This story has been told so many different ways, I'm not sure I have anything new to say but it's been sitting on my hard drive a while so into ten ficlets in ten days it goes.

It started on a Friday.  
  
Clint knew he'd screwed up, even though he’d made the shot. Spending a day unconscious and then another two under observation was a small price to pay for falling from his perch, but the look on Coulson’s face had been tougher to bear. He’d looked so angry, just for an instant, when Clint had opened his eyes and asked if he’d hit the target, but then it had been gone and they’d debriefed like nothing was wrong.  
  
So yeah, he’d screwed up. He wasn’t sure how yet, but limping back to his room after finally irritating Medical into releasing him, he was sure someone was going to tell him pretty soon. Sooner than he’d expected, actually, because Fury was sitting in Clint’s room, at his desk, using his laptop. “Sir?”  
  
Fury swiveled in his chair and folded his arms across his as he stared at Clint. For a guy with only one eye, he was really good at staring.  
  
“Did you need something, sir?” It’s getting really unnerving.  
  
“I’m trying to figure out what he sees in you.” Fury unfolded his arms and leaned back in the chair, obviously still considering. He takes his eye off Clint only to glance around the room. There were relatively bare walls, clothes tucked away in a dresser, a few DVDs and books on a shelf and of course, the two large black cases that define Clint’s entire life. “You’re very good at what you do, and you’re tidy. Since he likes to listen to you talk, that’s probably enough.”  
  
“Okay, you’ve lost me already.”  
  
Fury moved sideways so Clint can see the laptop screen. He’d logged into the security feed and he’d apparently been watching Coulson sleep at his desk. “Your handler hasn’t slept since you fell out of a tree and cracked your skull. This whole thing is pathetic and I’m not going to stand for it any more. You need to handle this.”  
  
Was that all? Fury could have done this by email. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure he goes home tonight.”  
  
“Barton, you are not listening to me, and you know I hate to repeat myself. Let me try again. That man,” Fury pointed at the screen, at Coulson sleeping on a pile of forms, “Is pining after you. You have zero concept of your own personal safety, and whenever you’re in Medical he sits by your bed, not sleeping. He didn’t go home last night because he tried to catch up on all the work he missed mooning over you. So I need you to do something about this before you get someone killed. Do you understand?”  
  
There is no response to the director of the intelligence agency you work for telling you your handler has the hots for you, so for once, Clint keeps his mouth shut. All he says is, “I understand.”  
  
“Good.” Fury leaves, his coat doing that showy flap thing that shouldn’t be possible without wind.  
  
Clint sits down in his desk chair and stares at the screen, stares at Coulson, stares at *Phil*. He’s got a thing for competence and that’s something Phil has in spades. He’s spent a lot of time staring, this past year, but he’d never caught Phil looking back. Clint reached out and pushed the laptop shut, then, before he could talk himself out of it, he threw a change of clothes into a backpack and went up to Phil’s office.  
  
He looked exhausted, even asleep, and Clint felt bad for keeping him awake and for what he was about to do. “Sir. We need to go. Fury’s orders.”  
  
Phil sat up, eyes out of focus. “Where?”  
  
“I’ll drive. You can sleep on the way.” They made it down to the garage okay but he had to practically pour Phil into the passenger seat of his own car. He was asleep as soon as he fastened his seatbelt.  
  
Clint had survived this far trying not to want too much, and mostly it had worked. It had kept him alive as a kid, then under the radar in the Army but he wanted Phil more than he’d wanted anything in a long time, maybe since Mrs. Fredrickson had put the bow in his hand, since Trickshot had put a different kind of bow there.  
  
Phil slept until they got to his apartment and Clint pulled into the spot in the garage painted with Phil’s apartment number. “We’re here.”  
  
Phil was instantly awake. “This is my apartment building.”  
  
“Yes, sir, it certainly is.” Clint slid out of the driver seat and grabbed his bag from the backseat.  
  
“Why are we at my apartment?”  
  
No point in being subtle now. “Sex.”  
  
He could see Phil mentally playing back the day in his head then he seemed to shrug and give up. “Sleep first.”  
  
“Alright. Sounds good.”  
  
Phil blinked at him a few times then headed towards the elevator. He didn’t speak at all as the elevator climbed to his floor, as he unlocked his apartment and went into his bedroom. He did occasionally glance at Clint, as if expecting him to disappear, or turn into a purple rabbit and Clint wondered exactly how many times he’d had this sort of dream.

He stripped down to his boxers and collapsed on top of the bed. “Barton, please stop doing this to me. Please.”

“Stop doing what?” Had he been coming across as a tease? Had he been proposition Phil every time he’d taken a hit to the head?

“Falling. Please stop falling.”

Clint rolled Phil onto his side and pulled the covers down, then rolled him back. “I can’t promise you that. I am sorry though.”

Phil muttered something Clint couldn’t quite make out, but it wasn’t orders to leave so he got naked and crawled into the bed. It was a nice mattress, it had expensive sheets on it and it had Phil Coulson in it, so Clint was calling the week a win.

* * *

In the morning, Clint woke up to find Phil watching him. “Good morning?”

“How did you learn to play the cello?” Clint had been expecting morning sex, not an interrogation, so it took his brain a minute to boot up and really look at Phil. He had the ‘Agent’ face on, and it was not quite concealing a worried look.

“Outreach to underprivileged youth.” It was in his file, but it wasn’t something he talked about. Mrs. Fredrickson had followed him from group home to group home, until he and Barney had finally high tailed it out of there.

The possibility of Clint not being Clint set aside, Phil moved on to his next line of questioning. “Are you being coerced or threatened?”

“No!” Phil had clearly been up a while, there was an empty coffee cup on the bedside table and apparently, while Clint had slept, Phil had sat there, thinking up all sorts of reasons why Clint couldn’t possibly be here of his own free will. That worried look made his guts twist and he did the only thing he could think of, he lied. “Look, they call me Hawkeye for a reason. I’ve seen the way you look at me. It’s not my fault if you never noticed me looking back. Now do you want sex or not?”

The worried look turned into something slightly predatory. The answer turned out to be yes, Phil wanted sex very much.

Phil was pretty agreeable, post-coital, and they didn’t really talk about it after that which Clint was pretty happy about. Who wanted to admit that Nick Fury of all people had played matchmaker?

* * *

His parents had loved each other, Clint was sure of it. If they hadn’t, he was sure his mother would have walked out years before the crash. Their love had been loud and violent and had sort of turned Clint off the whole idea for a long time. Better to just have a group of good friends he fucked on occasion, strategically located around the globe.

Loving Phil was quiet, but dangerous in its own way. Clint was 32 and sort of amazed he’d lived this long. He’d never thought about getting old, about wanting to be with someone for a long time. There was a good chance that if things went FUBAR enough, Phil wouldn’t even have a body to bury.

A year in, when he moved into Phil’s apartment for real instead of just sleeping there as often as humanly possible, all he brought was a duffle bag, two cardboard boxes and his best girls, his favorite bow and his cello. Phil had looked vaguely horrified, but he’d built Clint his own book case in the Shrine, that room Phil claimed was his office but was really his monument to Captain America.

That was the year Mrs. Coulson insisted Phil bring his partner to Thanksgiving, otherwise she was going to tell the entire family Phil had made it all up, that there was no cellist, that he was living alone in New York City without so much as a cat. Clint wasn’t willing to put up with being considered imaginary, and even the cellist bit wasn’t a lie so they drove upstate and Clint prepared to face down Phil’s extended family with the same mental routine he used to go up against Hydra.

It turned out not to be necessary. Thanksgiving with Phil’s family reminded him of meals at the group home, everyone talking and arguing all at once, food being shoved in all directions. He’s been worried about dinner being something complicated with lots of different forks and expensive china. There was one kind of fork and it had been in a plastic cup on the buffet line.

This was fine, and Mrs. Coulson wasn’t quite as scary as the HYDRA interrogators, although she tried. “So, Clint, Phil tells me you’re a musician.”

The mashed potatoes were shoved in his direction by some cousin whose name Clint had already forgotten and he took a scoop before the person on his left grabbed the bowl. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How did the two of you meet? Phil always seems to be at the office.” Her question was asked sweetly, but the statement that followed was intended as a pointed remark to the son she’d been expecting to die alone slumped over an expense report, or so Phil had told him.

“Oh, he shot me.” Clint stabbed at a slice of ham when the platter went by. There was a moment of silence and he looked up at the confused faces. “Paintball. There’s a league. I’m ex-Army too.”

“Phil, you jerk.” Phil’s sister poked him with a spoon. “Did you really shoot this poor man then ask him on a date?”

“No.” Phil didn’t seem to be willing to elaborate and someone asked him about work. The family thought he was some kind of business consultant and stories from SHIELD generalized pretty well once you took out the classified bits.

The worse thing that happened that trip was having to choose between something like twenty different desserts. They went back for Christmas and Phil must have said something about him being an orphan because no one ever asks why they never spent a holiday in Ohio.

* * *

Clint was assigned to hunt down the Black Widow mid-January. Eastern Europe was cold in January, and when he wasn't in his perch he was tucked into bed with Phil. It’s almost a vacation, until he finally saw her. “I won’t do it.”

There was no sigh over the comm but only because Phil didn’t have tells like that. “Care to tell us why, Agent?”

“She wants me to.” The curtains were open, he didn’t even need the infrared. “She’s tired, making mistakes. There’s nowhere for her to go. If we gave her a chance, I think she’d come with us.”

“Barton, you are not going down there. She’ll have you for breakfast.”

“I don’t need to. Can you put me through to her room phone?”

“Barton-“

“Sir, if she won’t come in, I can still make the shot, but I won’t do it until I’ve talked to her.”

Clint could hear some banter on Phil’s end of the line, Sitwell joking about Clint sleeping on the couch, but eventually Phil said, “Go ahead. You get one try, then you take the shot.”

There’s a ringing noise in his comm and when she answered he didn’t even let her say hello. “Don’t move.” He turned on the laser site for his rifle, putting the dot square in her chest. Once she’d seen it, he moved it slowly up to her forehead. “You know, Widow, it would be a real waste if I killed you. You’re very talented. I’ve watched you collect information, it’s beautiful.” She was a master of manipulation. People didn’t even realize they were giving her everything.

“Thank you. Do you do this to all your marks?”

“No, I thought we could chat for a bit.”

The Widow looked at the mirror in her room and saw the site perfectly centered on her forehead. “About what?”

Phil’s voice cut into the line. “Former partner was the Winter Soldier. Red Room Sniper, as far as we know he was killed by his own people.”

It was enough for Cint to run with. “About partners. Your partner was a sniper, wasn’t he? Until the Red Room killed him. I can see why you ran, I wouldn’t put up with that shit either but sooner or later the lone wolf dies, Widow. I have a couple options for you, your choice.”

“You’ve got me in your sights and I have options? I’m flattered.” And Clint knew there was a reason he’d been pulled for this op. That was a lot of seduction being thrown at him, better to have a gay trigger man, especially if he was the best.

“Don’t try your Black Widow act on me. I’m sleeping with my handler, and he’s the jealous type.”

Phil’s voice was a low rumble in his ear. “Please tell me you don’t tell other people that.”

“I understand.”

“See? She thinks I’m abusing my authority over you and we’ve never even met.”

Clint ignored him. Phil’s issues and Clint’s continuing enthusiastic consent were an argument for later. “Look, if you want a bullet to the brain, we can do that. Or, you can have a sniper at your back again. I’ll go to bat for you. Your choice.”

“I’m not looking for new masters.”

Clint had to laugh, because wasn’t that what he had told Phil two years ago, his first private security contract post-Army gone to hell? “No, but neither was I. It was this or death for me too, Widow, and I’ve never regretted it.”

Clint had wanted to give her a chance, but he was as surprised as anyone when she said, “Alright.”

* * *

 

It had taken a telepath of Charles Xavier’s skill to reprogram her brain, to take out all the false memories and trip wires. Clint spent the whole time watching, through one way but not bullet proof glass. The Widow was at least fifty years old, Xavier told them later, and she was born in the winter. She’d been taken too young and too much had been done to her for him to give her an exact date. “She might want to speak to Logan, to see if he can remember meeting her before. She’s been genetically altered to have both an advanced healing factor and near eternal youth. It’s something Weapon X could have taken from him.”

“No.” Phil shook his head, he’d already gotten a report from the geneticists. “This is a variation on the Super Soldier formula. Thank your help though.”

When Phil went into the room where they were holding her, Clint brought a gun. He could get an arrow through glass, but a bullet would be quicker.

Phil sat across from her, facing the glass. Clint wouldn’t have any trouble shooting around him if it came to that. “Ms. Romanova. I can’t say I ever expected to meet you face to face. I’ll be assuming responsibility for you, once you’re cleared for active duty.”

Her face was perfectly schooled into a generic pleasant expression. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s talk about your capabilities.” Phil uncapped a pen and flipped open the cover of a notebook. “Tell me about your training.”

“I was trained by the Winter Soldier.” She didn’t seem eager to elaborate, but she’d peeked Phil’s interest.

“I’ve always wondered, how many Winter Soldiers have there been?” Phil had a compulsion to know everything. It made him both an obsessive fan and very good at his job.

“There has only been one.” There was an almost invisible stiffening in her body language. She was defensive about him. “His name was James, he was a person. It was not a title.”

“James.” There was a strange look on Phil’s face. “Based on the serum in your blood, we can tell the Soldier was a survivor of HYDRA experimentation. That must have been quite a story to top, even in the Red Room.”

“Why are you so interested in a dead man?”

“Humor me.” Phil set his pen down. He wasn’t taking notes anymore, but he was definitely still interested. “I’d like to know who he was. He was important to you.”

“I can’t tell you very much, he didn’t know very much. He wasn’t born in Russia. He had left someone behind, to join the Red Room, a partner. He was a very good shot, a good man to have at your back. He had a small tattoo on his arm, the outline of a wolf.”

“Yes, of course he did.” And he moved on, without asking her anything else.

(Clint never remembered to ask him why he’d been so interested, and years later, when Stark said they should all get Avengers tattoos and Steve talked about the wolf that all the Howling Commandos had gotten tattoos of, he never put it together.)

* * *

Any mission he came back from was a good mission, or at least that was what Clint thought.

St. Kitts hadn’t even been that much of a disaster and if the window had been open like it was supposed to be, he wouldn’t be so banged up. The agent in charge was going to be lucky to get out of his debrief with his life but Clint was fine.

Phil felt otherwise. Phil liked Clint with all his bones unbroken, all his blood on the inside where it belonged. “I’m not sure you’re aware of this, Agent Barton, but you’re only human. As a human being, you cannot fly.”

“I’m aware, sir.”

Phil shook his head and pulled out a handkerchief. “I shouldn’t let you go into the field without me. Obviously, no one else can take care of you.” He dabbed at a cut on Clint’s lip, the one that kept opening every time he talked. “The woman at the fruit stand by our apartment thinks I beat you.”

Clint murmured, low, so no one else could hear, “I missed you too.”


End file.
